It was the same old argument they had every time the subject came up. His sister was an intelligent woman. She had a PhD in English. It was just common sense she lacked, he supposed.
CHAPTER SIX
Back in his apartment, Stanley ran Hartman’s home videos again, fast forward, looking for anything he’d missed the first time through. Hartman hadn’t changed much over the years covered by the tapes: pale yellow hair that would probably never really turn gray, and the kind of reedy body that, even if he didn’t work at it, would never run to fat.
Of course, he’d change now. Dust to dust. Or ashes, maybe. He made a mental note to see if arrangements had been made for the body. Not because he thought it made any difference to the case, more out of curiosity than anything else.
Mrs. Hartman—Dora, according to the tapes label—hadn’t fared quite so well. She’d put on pounds, started out slim, got plumper and rounder with each segment. She was little, dark hair and eyes, a Mediterranean complexion—she could have been Italian or Spanish. Or the other side of the pond, for that matter. Even plump, though, she was still pretty, in a blowzy kind of way.
The son took after her in size—he was on the small side, too young to say if he’d follow her into plumpness. He’d gotten her coloration, too, and his father’s crotch. And a manner somewhere in between the two.
Stanley found himself wondering where the son was now. He had that look about him, not feminine, exactly, but on the journey from little boy to young man he had acquired a way of holding himself, of moving about, that suggested tea dances rather than soccer games.
Stanley rewound the tape a bit, looked again at a couple of shots of him, tried to imagine him in drag. He could see it, the possibility. But so what? He couldn’t think of what motive this unknown young man could have for killing his father. Even harder was to imagine how father and son could have found themselves in the scene staged outside Hartman’s apartment. Anything was possible… He’d mention it to Tom.
But, apart from that, he couldn’t see anything here that was even marginally useful. Stanley booted up his computer and started a search for Gordon Hartman.
He’d been working at the keyboard for half an hour or so when the doorbell rang. It was Tom. He had followed instructions—or maybe it was just the way he normally dressed when he was off duty. Whatever, he looked butch indeed, Stanley was pleased to see, very butch, and good enough to eat—north to south, east to west and all points in between. Leather jacket, battered motorcycle boots, tight, faded Levi’s all too conspicuously crowded in the front.
Stanley found himself flashing on Gordon Hartman in an obviously too skimpy bathing suit. He wondered if Tom qualified for the baseball team as well. Wondered how much of his showing was accidental and how much deliberate. He too could have worn jockey shorts. On a bet, Stanley thought there was probably nothing between him and the jeans but a thin film of sweat. Salty to the tongue. If a tongue got so lucky.
“Hubba hubba,” he said, stepping back to take inventory.
“Knock it off,” Tom said, blushing, although Stanley did not miss that he looked pleased, too. Well, even straight men liked compliments. “This isn’t for your benefit.”
“There’s no law says I can’t get some peripheral pleasure out of it,” Stanley said. “Oh, if you’re wondering about that big word, peripheral—that just means rim. You’ve heard that term, haven’t you?”
“Rim? Sure. There’s a town up near Arrowhead, called Rim of the World,” Tom said, deadpan. He handed Stanley a stack of photo copies. “Our suspect,” he said.
Stanley took the copies, looked long and hard at the sketches of their drag queen. “I’ve named her Bella Donna,” he said.
“Bella… uh… Why?”
“The villains always have cute names in mystery novels. It means Beautiful Woman.” He crooked a finger in Tom’s direction. “Let me show you.”
There was a vase on the kitchen counter, a large sprig of foliage with blue-purple flowers, bell shaped, and shiny black berries. Stanley took the stem from the vase, handed it to Tom.
“That’s belladonna,” he said.
Tom looked at it. “It’s pretty,” he said. He plucked one of the shiny black berries from the plant, rolled it in his hand. “Are these edible?” he asked, popping it into his mouth.
“Not if you want to live a long life. It’s also called deadly nightshade. Deadly is the operative word.”
Tom spat the berry into the sink next to Stanley. “Jesus, if it’s so deadly, why do you have it around the place?” he asked. He filled a glass with water, swished it around in his mouth, and spit, did it again just in case.
“Because it’s beautiful. Like Gaye Dawn. Like our drag queen. The witnesses said she was beautiful. And we know she was deadly.” He took the stem back from Tom and returned it to the vase. “Come on, butch, let me show you what I’ve been doing with my hands while I was waiting for you.”
“I’m not sure…”
“On the computer,” Stanley said. He led the way into a small front room mostly dominated with a widescreen television, a couple of chairs arranged in front of it for maximum viewing, and a computer against one wall.
“You’ll notice, everything’s color coordinated,” he said. He went to the computer, played with the keyboard. A face appeared on the screen.
“Hartman,” he said. “I’ve been checking him out, looking for some kind of clue.”
Tom nodded, impressed despite himself. “Good idea,” he said. “So, what did you find?”
Stanley shook his head. “Not much, to tell you the truth. Aside from that monster wienie, there is almost nothing remarkable about Gordon Hartman. He was a bookkeeper, before his supervisor gig. You don’t get much more ho-hum than that, do you? He was married, like Andrews said.” He played with the keyboard. A woman’s face replaced Hartman’s on the monitor.
“The wife, Dora. They separated about a year ago. She was in Sacramento, quit her job about two weeks back. Seems to have disappeared since then.”
“Maybe something there?”
“No, she was a real woman, we’re looking for a drag queen. Unless she hired one to kill her ex.”
“Doesn’t seem likely.”
“And here’s their son, Jay. He’s kind of pretty, and he’s little. If I had to bet money, I’d say he’s gay. So, it’s remotely possible that he’s our drag queen.”
“Doesn’t seem likely, either, does it? Wouldn’t hurt to check him out, though. Where’s he live?
“San Diego. Goes to school there. Theater major.” The screen changed.
“Who’s that?”
“Acheson. A while ago. Looks like it was taken at the wedding, or the reception, maybe.”
“Huh.” Tom studied the picture. There was a woman next to Acheson, and an older couple on his other side. They were standing outside in a tree filled yard, people milling in the background.
“He looks different,” Tom said, studying Acheson’s image. “Not just younger. Different.”
“You’re right.” Stanley scrutinized him too. “More, I don’t know, more hopeful, maybe. He’s got a, what, an angry look today, doesn’t he? Or disappointed, maybe. That’s the parents. And the wife.”
The photographer had caught the others standing in bright sunlight, but Moira Acheson was off to the side, in the shade of a tree.
“Hard to tell much about her, isn’t it?” Tom said. “She didn’t strike me as shy.”
“Some people don’t like having their pictures taken,” Stanley said. “Not much on her. She lives in Noe Valley. That’s just over the hill from the Castro. I’ve got her address, phone number. That’s about it.”
“Nothing on Miss Gaye?”
Stanley raised an eyebrow at him. “What, you want cheesecake? She’s not that big a star. Come on, let’s go trolling.”
He switched off the computer, took a necktie off the back of his chair, and started to knot it around his throat.
“Uh, Stanley—neve
r wear a necktie on this kind of job, okay?”
“Why? Too grand? I thought the contrast was kind of cute, you all construction biker look, and me the preppy. Makes us look like a real couple, don’t you think?”
“I saw a guy get choked one time with his Windsor knot,” Tom said. “I could choke you myself, before you even knew what was happening.”
“Oh.” Stanley thought a minute and undid the necktie. “Okay, no ties. I don’t want any Windsor choking me. Unless it was Harry, and not with his necktie. He’s kind of cute, don’t you think? You have to sort of wonder about the royal scepter, it seems…”
“Uh, Stan…”
“Stanley.”
“That bulge in your jacket there—that isn’t your gun, is it?”
“Eyes like a hawk,” Stanley said.
“You’re supposed to carry it in your holster.” Tom opened his own jacket to show the shoulder holster, with his gun in it. “See.” He demonstrated how quickly it could be drawn.
“Oh, please, have you even noticed my figure? I tried wearing the holster. It ruined the line of my outfit completely. I looked like I had one tittie under my armpit. Don’t worry, I won’t shoot myself.”
Tom looked as if he were about to offer a reply to that, and thought better of it. “Let’s check out this Carla’s place,” he said instead.
§ § § § §
Carla’s Web was in one of those transitional neighborhoods, somewhere between high-end and seedy, just showing a definite tilt toward the latter. A long and narrow—and badly lighted—parking lot occupied one side of the club, and what looked to have been a fairly posh eatery on the other side was closed, with a big
“for sale” sign on the door. There were some retail shops: a flower store, a Dunkin’ Donuts, an office complex.
“Good thing it’s a department car,” Tom said, parking in the dark lot next to the bar, “I’d hate to leave my own wheels in this place.”
“Let me guess,” Stanley said. “A Jeep?”
Tom gave him a sideways glance. “Pick up truck. A Ram.”
“Sounds appropriate.” Stanley nodded.
“What? You think I should be driving a Buick?”
“They ride nicely.”
“Old lady’s car.”
“I drive a Buick.”
“Case closed.”
“I’m not old.”
“You’re queer. Same thing.”
A huge dyke sat behind a table at the front door, under a sign that said, “We card everyone.” She gave them a fishy look as they came in and nodded them through.
“You’re not going to ID me?” Stanley asked, looking up at a security camera over her table. “What if I’m under age?”
“More likely under him,” she said, indicating Tom.
“Never happen,” Tom muttered.
Stanley leaned back to stage whisper, “I’m working on it.”
They went through a curtained doorway and found themselves in a big rectangle of a room. A crowded bar ran down one side, and a brightly lit stage dominated the far wall, with a trio of drag queens in World War Two WAAC uniforms lip synching Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, alternately wagging their fingers and their tails at the raucously approving audience. The room was crowded, mostly couples sitting at tables the size of salad plates. The stags were all at the bar.
A short, plump woman dressed in Little House on the Prairie flounces hurried up, giving Stanley a hard smile and Tom an appreciative once over. “Table, Big Boy?” she simpered.
“We’ll take the bar,” Stanley said.
She gave him a frosty look and gestured in that direction. “Help yourself. Bring it back when you’re done.”
Tom led the way, making a path about the scattered tables in the direction of the bar, Stanley trailing half a step behind him, hurrying to keep up. Tom looked around with an odd combination of curiosity and nonchalance, somehow managing to give the impression that he was by himself, that Stanley’s presence was nothing more than mere coincidence.
“I don’t get it,” Tom said, without looking at Stanley, like he was talking to himself. “Half the people in here are couples. Man-woman couples. Or aren’t those real women?”
Stanley caught up with him, managed to fall in step. “It’s a tourist trap,” he said. “You didn’t notice that big red bus out front? These folks are from Sioux City, probably, or Oshkosh. Enjoying a sampling of the wicked life in the big city.”
“So why aren’t we sitting at a table?” Tom asked. “Why the bar? For us, I mean?”
“That’s where the gays sit.”
Tom stopped so abruptly that Stanley had actually gone a step or two past him and had to look back. “I don’t want to sit where the gays sit,” Tom said.
Stanley took his arm in what might have been an intimate gesture, but his grip was ferociously tight. “We need to talk to people. We aren’t going to do that sitting at a table in a corner. Unless, darling, you were planning on turning this into a romantic interlude just between the two of us. In that case, I see an empty table back in the far corner, and our investigation can wait.” He fluttered his eyelashes in Tom’s direction.
“The bar will be fine,” Tom said.
They had brought copies of the sketches of their suspect. Both the witnesses had been satisfied that it was a good likeness of the killer.
“They’re pretty good, too, better than what one usually gets,” Tom had said. Acheson and Clark had both been right, though. “She looks, I don’t know, unreal. She doesn’t exactly look like a woman, does she?”
“Think dark bar,” Stanley said. “This is not daylight makeup.”
Stanley showed the sketches to the bartender who took their order, a thin, dispirited imitation of Tina Turner. “We’re looking for a friend of ours, from Denver,” Stanley explained. “She came here three months ago looking to land a job in a drag show, and she just disappeared. Look familiar?”
“Who can tell?” Tina asked, “All the makeup. Must have put it on with a trowel. Anyway, sweetie, the drag queens in and out of this place, I can’t keep track. If you laid ‘em all end to end, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Maybe Lola can help you.” She signaled past them.
An enormous apparition appeared in front of them, a towering black man-woman in a skintight crimson sheath, sparkling with so many sequins it made them blink. She sized them up through dark lashes that looked a foot long, her attention quickly settling on Tom.
“They’re looking for a friend,” the bartender said, handing the photocopies across the bar. “Anyone you know?”
Lola looked hard at the drawings, and back at the pair seated at the bar. “These look like police sketches,”
she said. “Of someone who hasn’t mastered makeup one-oh-one.”
“They are police sketches, sort of,” Tom said, giving her a sheepish grin. “A friend of ours back in Denver, a policeman friend, did the sketches. Best he could do. Does she look familiar?”
“So what’s the deal with you two?” Lola asked Tom’s lap.
Stanley took Tom’s hand in his. “If you really want to know, we’re on our honeymoon. We just thought since we’re here, we’d try to find our friend. Missy, she used to call herself.”
“Your honeymoon? You two are supposed to be lovers? Like I’m going to believe that?” Lola snorted derisively. “You’re cops, right?”
“Us? Don’t be ridiculous,” Stanley said. “What makes you say that?”
“You look like cops. He does, anyway. He looks straight, too. You look as queer as a three dollar bill.”
Tom laughed. “He is,” he said.
“Okay,” Stanley said, “cops don’t kiss, do they. Not a straight cop and one who’s as queer as a three dollar bill.” He leaned toward Tom and kissed him on the mouth, quickly, before Tom had time to see it coming.
For a second or two, he could feel Tom resisting, preparing to pull away. Stanley brought his hand up, ran it through Tom’s dark hair, pulled on one curl hard. To
m got the message.
In more ways than one. When Stanley explored with his tongue, Tom opened his mouth, and his own tongue came out to welcome him. To Stanley’s surprise, it was a very nice kiss. And very torrid.
For a moment, anyway. Then Tom bit down on Stanley’s tongue, hard. Stanley grunted and gave his hair another serious pull. Tom opened his teeth, and Stanley pulled away.
“Gosh, lover, you get rough sometimes,” he said, managing a little laugh.
“I can get rougher,” Tom said with a mean grin.
“Okay, okay, I can tell the difference between a real kiss and a fake one,” Lola said. “But you guys are weird, I’ll say that for you.” She handed the photos back. “Never saw her. I don’t do circus clowns.”
“What about him?” They had brought the shot of Gordon Hartman as well, a young Gordon Harman in a sailor suit. Stanley handed her one of those.
“Who’s he, the husband?”
“In a manner of speaking. Does he look familiar?”
She barely glanced at the photo, handed it back so fast it might have been aflame. “Never saw him either.”
She walked away. Tom waited until she was out of hearing range. “All right,” he said through clenched teeth, “What the fuck was that about?”
“What, the pictures?”
“The kissing shit.”
“Part of the job,” Stanley said. “You heard her. She was about to blow our cover. Sometimes a cop has to do things he doesn’t want to do. You know that. It comes up in movies all the time.”
They glowered at one another for a moment. Tom was the first to back down. “Okay,” he said, “But only when we have to, and only for the job. And for the record, I did not enjoy it.”
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
“Didn’t I just say that? Let me make it clearer. I hated it. It made me want to puke, if you want to know the truth.”
“Well, if you hated it so much, why was your dick starting to get hard?”
“What were you doing checking out my dick? For sure my dick’s not a part of our cover.”
Victor J. Banis Page 6
